


A Yankee Demon Hunter in An English Prince’s Bed

by chewysugar



Category: British Royalty RPF, Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom Dean Winchester, Condoms, Demon Dean Winchester, Demonic Possession, Dirty Talk, Drunk Sex, House Party, M/M, One Night Stands, Partying, Porn, Prostate Orgasm, Public Nudity, Recovered Memories, Repressed Memories, Rimming, Smut, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2020-01-20 17:04:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18529378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chewysugar/pseuds/chewysugar
Summary: There’s a reason Dean doesn’t go back to England. He might not know it, but the demon sharing his skin certainly does.





	A Yankee Demon Hunter in An English Prince’s Bed

**Author's Note:**

> I can’t even comprehend how inappropriate this is.

Demon claws sift through memories like a child tunneling through sand. They pick at childhood traumas and sexual fantasies, flicking them away in boredom. What do such things matter? It wants to find the real juice in the fruit of Dean Winchester’s soul. He’s a legend among the various demenses, and this demon has won the jackpot, slam-dunk, home run. It isn’t going to simply satisfy itself rehashing old news.

So it came to pass that it stumbles upon a memory that Dean has buried under years of denial. No, not the dalliances with men. Those are obvious; plain as the closet case on his face. It does involve a man, though—a notable man, whose identity has the demon cackling its hide off.

Surroundings form in fluid rivulets like cream shooting through coffee. It’s a loud room in the heart of London; music circa early 2000’s blasts from a sub-woofer. The demon senses the how-to’s of this: that old Johnny Winchester used his credit card and identity fraud to take a jaunt ‘cross the Pond with his only remaining sonny-boy in tow. Of course, Deano isn’t going to spend all his time on the case that bore him hence. Not when there’s and undiscovered country worth of intimate depths to plume. He’s spread his seed over North America, now England is ripe for the picking.

Only...

Oh but it’s too delicious. To sit here and spy young, lithe, twink-flavor Dean Winchester with his shirt off, dancing like a perfect loon with the red-headed spare heir of House Windsor.

They’re both completely pissed. They would have to be, to be so comfortable within each other’s personal spaces in such a state of near-undress. At least, Harry would have to be. The demon isn’t certain of his druthers, but what it wouldn’t give to wear a royal as a meat suit and found out.

Speaking of meat...

At the encouragement of Harry’s gathered mates, Dean pulls his jeans and boxers down in one swift movement. Wild wolves would make less of a din than the cheers that issue from the party. Small wonder. Well. Not really small. Dean Winchester happens to be the kind of man who’d walk down the street and have strangers knowing that there went a hung young stallion.

Harry stands back, but not out of need for decency and decorum. You’d think an extract from the Louvre has popped into life in front of him. For someone who’s had opulence handed to him from his first breath, he shouldn’t be drooling over something so mundane as a naked man shaking his bangers and mash like it ain’t no biggie. But he’s staring, and staring at all the right places.

Nothing loathe, Dean stumbles towards the prince. He can’t know. In fact, the demon would bet his soullessness on it. Dean hasn’t seen anything on TV or in a magazine that wasn’t a pair of tits or a thick hog. He doesn’t know that he’s grinding against the wild child of The People’s Princess.

Harry knows. There’s need in his eyes and heat boiling in his crown jewels but he isn’t about to make a disaster out of this. No matter how much he craves causing a scandal on the royal court, he won’t give in.

At least not around a crowd.

“Showing off isn’t proper,” he says, taking Dean by the wrist. “Let’s get you covered, mate.”

“‘M not your mate til you mate with me,” Dean slurs. Laughter again, and the crowd lets them get away. Swallowed by surroundings, they melt into the background.

Not so fast. The demon has been enjoying the proceedings and isn’t going to let them slip through its claws. Things only just got interesting, after all. And things only get all the more interesting when the demon sifts through the memory—desecrating private events and sacred moments with its jagged claws—to follow them.

Speaking of interesting...

It finds itself in a bedroom—not Harry’s, but one of the chavs occupying this den of hedonism. It couldn’t be Harry’s given the posters of strippers—most autographed—and cars lining the wall...not to mention the mess is something to make the most stolid Essex natives go green.

Of course, that’s not the eye-opener; not the real focus of the demon’s attention. What grabs its eyes are the two blokes on the bed. It has to admit—it thought that Harry wasn’t going to stoop to the level of a commoner. But it might just be his “can’t keep my penis in my pants” turn on button: to be giving rather than receiving. He’s down on his knees with a regal mouth full of Grade A Winchester sausage.

Hovering like toxic smoke, the demon watches as Dean moans and groans like a porn star. It’s slightly stunned—which is odd, given that this is pure vanilla compared to the sights and delights of Hell. But to see the inheritor of the Crown deep-throating the bane of Satan’s existence is staggering. That Dean could be so careless as to forget is blasphemous.

And things only get better, and gayer. His Royal Highness tires of giving Dean head. He flips Dean’s legs up near his shoulders, exposing that glorious Tudor rose between his cheeks. He makes a show of eating Dean like a cannibal, smacking his lips between long laps of his tongue. Dean writhes, cock flush against his abs, already oozing with juice.

“Cherry pie,” Harry says, wiping his mouth as he comes up for air. “Something to be said for an American delicacy.” Lucifer, but he’s a filthy little monkey. Kneeling by Dean’s splayed legs, he undoes his belt and lets his jeans fall to his knees.

The demon’s eyes pop at the same time as Dean’s. William might inherit the throne, but the younger of the two is gifted in other ways. He plies that royal scepter with a dollop of lubricant extracted from the bedside table—because of course the scallies in this neck of the woods have Astroglide to spare. He suits up, too, sliding a rubber down his Rodger with the finesse of a stripper.

“Deep breath, honey-buns.”

My, my, my, my, my but this is going to be an exquisite bartering chip. Heaven doesn’t even know this side of the prince, and it certainly doesn’t know this part of Dean’s personal history.

Harry slides in with surprising ease. Obviously this isn’t Dean’s first time taking it from a hung stud. The demon knows this because it’s seen other buried memories—drunken dalliances, sober trysts and those times when he was so strapped for cash that he let the odd trucker or biker or businessman use his hole as a cum dumpster.

Playing power bottom for a prince is a remarkable step up. Harry’s in him like flint, pants still provocatively half-on his body. The muscles of his shoulders and back ripple as he pounds relentlessly into this conquest—this filthy, sweet Yank. Ashen anger tinges the sickeningly sweet lust in the air, sharp on the demon’s palette. Seems royal junior has more skeletons in his closet than just a taste for the hard, unyielding ass and dick of a man. Then again, it’s hardly a surprise.

But as fierce as his thrusts are—all force and ball-slapping fervor—he’s oddly tender with Dean. Deep inside the man below him, he’s still close, face inches from the stupidly pretty American. They kiss, hot and needy, both clearly enjoying this. It’s not assault or a show of dominance, which the demon finds slightly potions—that they need each other despite being perfect strangers is an affront to its hellish sensibilities.

Nobody interrupts them. The music is so loud throughout the house that Harry and Dean can afford to be loud without being overheard. And if anyone does suspect, they’re too deferential to the prince’s status—which is astounding considering one of his progenitors was the most photographed woman in the world during her life.

Harry drives Dean wild. His cock bumps against something sensitive within Dean’s body. Bucking, Dean spurts clear fluid across his abs and chest.

“I-I’m not coming,” he gasps. “Wh-what is that? I don’t—

“Never had a prostate orgasm before?” Harry smirks, swiping a line of pre-juice off Dean’s skin and licking it from his fingers. “Hold on tight, pretty boy.” And he starts to slam into Dean, so hard and fast that the demon is astounded Dean’s bones don’t break.

He really does come, then—pearly volleys of semen jetting from his dick so hard and fast that he gets a face full of it. With a smirk of satisfaction, Harry pulls out, peels the Johnny from his skin, and fists his cock. He aims between Dean’s ass, marking him with princely jizz.

Spent, both collapse against each other. Harry kisses Dean again, deep and long—the tongues-dancing shit that cheap romance novelists just love dedicating whole paragraphs to. When they break apart, lips red and raw, Dean’s having trouble keeping his eyes open.

“That was—

Harry grins—high octane and careless in a way that makes him the vexation of the monarchy and the darling of the public. “Yeah. Best I’ve had in a long time.”

“I should get your number,” Dean mumbles, which makes Harry laugh, as if that’s the most perfectly adorable thing he’s ever heard.

“ ‘Fraid this might be a one night stand, lover boy.”

Dean lolls his head to one side. Harry thoughtfully wipes his conquest’s face free of semen. In a matter of seconds, Dean is breathing evenly, exhausted after his roll in the hay.

A small part of the demon—the part that is still tethered to an identity separate from Hell—has shipped this odd pairing so much that it hopes Harry spoons Dean. It wants to see them cuddle up; wants to jettison to the next morning to find them awakening in each other’s arms. It wants the reason Dean buried this to be due to them both going their separate ways—Harry’s duty to the throne a tragic barrier, and Dean’s secret life too risky.

But Harry only wanted to drain his balls with a beautiful stranger. Since he’s smart, he’ll run away. He gets up, pulls his pants back on, and does his belt back up. Just before he sneaks out, he gives Dean a soft kiss on the lips. The demon catches raw longing on the prince’s face. Maybe he wants more than just a bout of bisexuality; but as much as the Winchester’s can’t have normalcy, neither can the Windsor’s.

Harry steps away from his sleeping beauty, and it’s the last Dean’s memories will ever see of him. He’ll only touch upon it in dreams, or those moments when his thoughts turn to the sober and honest. In the morning he’ll awake to the remains of the party: he’ll feel the drying come covering his hole, and shelve this as just another dance with his own devil. He’ll never know that he just got fucked by a fairy tale prince.

The demon lets the sun go down on the unearthed event. It’s not satisfied. Not because this wasn’t just what it hoped it would find, but because the way it ended makes it somewhat sad. Damn it again if it doesn’t feel a little sorry for the skin its in.

Then it shakes itself.

Duh.

It’s a demon. It can do whatever—and whomever— the literal Hell it wants. And as Dean’s eyes open, pitch black and hungry for chaos, the demon turns its thoughts to the greenery and history of Great Britain.

A reunion of some kind is definitely in order...

**Author's Note:**

> Every so often I write something that makes me believe I really am going to end up burning in Hell. 
> 
> This is among the top five of those fics. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed yourself! I'm off to get my soul cleansed.


End file.
